


Commonality

by orphan_account



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Shizuo and Izaya's final battle, Izaya breaks into Shizuo's apartment and the two confront whether their hatred of themselves or the other burns brighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commonality

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make this as in character as possible but it's mostly just a venting thing so I'm sorry if it's not terribly IC. Anyway, I hope this doesn't upset anyone too much, angst is far more fun to write than read.

The bleach stings more than he expects it to. It’s not that he minds the pain, really, it’s quite a welcome distraction, but the feeling that his scalp is crawling with the bites of a hundred fire-red ants is unsettling to say the least. The towel  around his neck slowly stains a vibrant yellow, as does the the dark hair on his head. When he looks in the mirror, he  hardly recognizes himself - the harsh lines of his face are made even more pale by the fall of blond hair across his forehead and untucked in front of his ears. It’s hauntingly familiar, but that’s exactly what Izaya wants. There are differences, of course - the cut of his hair, the shape of his face, the slope of his jaw, the dull of his eyes - but the yellow that ghosts his dreams (awake or sleeping) is now hanging over his face, and he is one step closer to becoming _him._

He pulls the crisp white dress shirt on carefully, as to not stain it, buttons up the vest slowly, pulls on the pants delicately, and fastens the bowtie efficiently. They’re all too large, of course, hanging off Izaya’s thin frame nearly comically, but there’s more of a significance in raiding Shizuo’s wardrobe than custom-ordering carbon copies of his clothes, though money wouldn’t have been an issue. Izaya doesn’t bother with shoes, knowing the other man is a good three sizes bigger than him anyway, and instead opts to tread around the apart he has broken into barefoot, settling down on the couch and pulling three items out of his pocket - one, a box of cigarettes in Shizuo’s favorite brand, two, a lighter, and three, a pair of tinted rectangular sunglasses. Pushing the glasses onto his face, he pulls a cigarette from the box and idly glances at the glow of the time on the clock in the kitchen. Shizuo should be home in three minutes. The apartment is dark, and Izaya was careful to clean up his mess, close the drawers, and relock the door after forcing his entry. The light of a flame illuminates the room, shedding light on a simple sofa and side-table with a small counter separating the living room from the kitchen. Izaya takes a drag of the cigarette, and the smoke catches in his lungs - he forces himself not to let out a cough and instead slowly exhale, the smoke barely visible in the air. It takes four more puffs before the _click_ of the door unlocking makes it to Izaya’s ear, and he sits perfectly still, curtains drawn to exclude the moonlight.

It takes one inhale of the cigarette’s smoke before the sound of Izaya’s breathing makes it to Shizuo’s ear, and there’s a _squeak_ as polished shoes pivot against the polished floor and Shizuo hisses _“fuck”_ before flicking the lights on and storming into the living room, a lamp brandished in his hand.

Izaya takes another drag of the cigarette, silently watching, and exhales just as Shizuo blinks, once, twice, thrice - and then his shoulders tense, he raises the lamp higher, the recognition drains his face like he has seen a ghost - and he might as well have. Izaya doesn’t brace for the impact of the lamp smashing against him that never comes, and for a moment the two are locked in eye contact far more intimate than that of any pair of lovers’.

Shizuo speaks first. It’s not a shout, which might have been significantly easier to deal with, but a whisper that grates on Izaya’s eardrums. “Izaya.” No -kun, just his name - three syllables - I-zay-a. It comes out like a curse, like Shizuo’s standing in the presence of the devil himself, or something just as ungodly. It’s not a far stretch, Izaya thinks. Not a far stretch at all.

“You’re wearing my clothes.” He says first.  
  
Then. “You’re smoking my cigarettes.”  
Then. “You used my hair dye.”  
Then. “You’re in my apartment.”

The statements are all factual, all true, all obvious. While in another situation Izaya might have berated Shizuo for pointing out such evident things, he keeps silent, taking another drag of _Shizuo’s_ cigarette. The absence of such a remark is obvious to both parties, and Shizuo lowers the lamp a fraction of a centimeter.

“Leave.” Again, it’s the quiet that stings Izaya, much more than the loud ever could. They make eye contact again, but Izaya doesn’t move, aside from his lips.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” The words are dull, faded from his usual taunting, sarcastic lilt, free of the condescending _Shizu-chan_ punctuating his question. Shizuo notes this as well, lowers the lamp until it’s level with one broad shoulder, hovering in front of him like it will ward off the evil that Izaya is.

The question hangs in the air, along with the scent of cigarette smoke and the weight of tension too heavy to ever be lifted. In the shadows, Izaya is smaller than Shizuo remembers him, and something is wrong, _wrong,_ he can’t attack him when his razor-sharp words have left and what remains is barely more than a shadow himself.  
It’s been three years - three years since Vorona stabbed Izaya, since Shizuo was spared the mark of a murderer, since Celty got her head back. I

t’s been three years, and it would be a lie if Shizuo claimed he hadn’t thought about the man in front of him every single day, not regretting what he did but not wishing to do it again, either. He’d known Izaya was alive. He’d known. And despite the mileage between them they had silently agreed not to cross each other’s paths again. So why was he here, why was he here now?

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” It’s not what Izaya is expecting Shizuo to say, let alone ask, and the laughter catches him off guard, spilling out over the rusty edge of a voice that hadn’t laughed in far too long. Shizuo stares, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as Izaya’s laugh turns into a cough, and and the man doubles over, disconnecting their shared gaze.

Shizuo lowers the lamp tili it’s hanging at his side, making no move toward Izaya, and no move to throw something at him either. Izaya looks up after he has recovered, staring through his bleached bangs at the man standing above him.  
“It’s simple really. Probably so simple that even you can understand.” Shizuo’s eyebrows draw together, but the hostility is still exempt from his face, the line of his mouth free of the glower of aggression. Izaya’s words are still lacking something, something Shizuo can’t quite put words on - they’re lacking the _Izaya_ behind them. The taunt, the threat, the condescension, the sarcasm, the lilt, the smirk. Yet, there’s not quite honesty either. Not yet.

“I was hoping, if I became like you, Shizuo, it would help me understand you better.” Sincerity is not something Shizuo has ever heard from Izaya before, and it takes him off guard enough that the lamp crashes to the floor from his hands, bulb smashing and glass scattering, the shade rolling somewhere towards the kitchen.

It’s Shizuo who laughs this time, a dark, resentful laugh that blocks Izaya’s lungs more than the smoke ever could. “Understand me? When have you _ever_ made a point to _understand_ me?” The bitterness is choking, the loathingness suffocating. For a moment, Izaya can’t breathe, and the emotions swirling in his chest are those he has tried to push away and succeeded in doing so for years, but they’re bubbling up too quickly, to strongly now, and he feels, like they’re going to come pouring out of his mouth in the form of sticky black tar.

“I haven’t. That’s why I’m trying to now.” Izaya’s words, thankfully, sound somewhat normal -  not normal for Izaya, not normal for anyone who knows him, but without the edge of everything he’s feeling, without the hitch of breath that comes when one’s about to cry.

“Why _now_?” Shizuo demands, fists clenching and tightening into fists hard enough that his knuckles turn white. Unconsciously, he moves towards Izaya, as if to take a swing at him, but the other doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver except for the hot of tears threatening to overwhelm him at any second.

“Why not?” It’s the longest they’ve gone without trying to kill each other - perhaps the first real conversation they’ve had, and Izaya doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse. This isn’t what was supposed to happen, this isn’t how it was supposed to _go,_ and the tar leaks in the form of salty, dark teardrops from the corners of his eyes.

Shizuo doesn’t notice right away - it’s hard to tell in the dark - but Izaya’s breathing steadily becomes more labored and restricted, and even if at first Shizuo thinks it’s from the cigarette he soon notices the glimmer of wet dampening Izaya’s cheekbones, his eyelashes. His fists unclench, and his fingers twitch as if to reach out to the intruder, but he stiffens them in determination. _Izaya_ is not someone to comfort, _Izaya_ is not someone to console, _Izaya_ is someone to kick, _Izaya_ is someone to kill. But there, in the dimness of the apartment, with Izaya looking like a too-skinny too-small too-sad too- _broken_ version of Shizuo himself, when he’s _crying_ \- the rage seems to have dissipated along with the leftover smoke from Izaya’s cigarette. There’s warning bells in the part of his brain, there’s warning bells that say “he’s manipulating you! It’s fake, he’s trying to catch you off guard so he can kill you!” And Shizuo knows, he _knows_ that the informant has never used _weakness_ as a form of manipulation, as a form of deceit or trickery, he uses lies, sure - lies hotter than the end of one of Shizuo’s cigarettes, lies hotter than the concrete in Ikebukuro in summer - but if he has truly sunk so low as to force himself to _cry_ as an attempt to weaken Shizuo’s resolve... if he truly has, then surely some part of him must not be faking it. If he’s too far gone to care, to let man he hates more than words can begin to describe see him in tears, even if not entirely authentic ones, to show _vulnerability_ , no matter how fabricated - if he is then he is not the man Shizuo knew three years ago. Not the Izaya Shizuo attempted to kill. Even so, the animosity doesn’t fade completely, but is instead joined by an emotion Shizuo is at a loss to name. An emotion that Shizuo knows shouldn’t be felt towards _Izaya Orihara,_ shouldn’t be felt anywhere _near_ him. But it is, and Shizuo struggles to speak, say something that will _prove_ to him that Izaya is ill-intentioned, that there is no place for what he is feeling so he can rid himself of what is making him feel exactly what Izaya wants him to feel.

Only, it isn’t what Izaya wants him to feel. The confusion in Shizuo’s eyes, garnished with a teaspoon of rage and a pinch of what Izaya doesn’t want to admit, what _Shizuo_ doesn’t want to admit is _pity,_ is enough to stop Izaya’s tears, to force him to turn towards the far windows. He puts out the cigarette on his hand, and it burns, but not so much as the burn of Shizuo’s _pitying_ gaze against the back of his head. No amount of cigarettes could burn as much as it does.

“Why are you here.” It’s a demand, not a question. A demand from a man in denial. Denial about the fact that Izaya is in his apartment, in his clothes, smoking his cigarettes, denial about the reason he is there in the first place, because if it could possibly not be malicious, then Shizuo doesn’t want to know what it is.

“I wanted to see you.” Izaya doesn’t turn around; the words are flat and cold but not venomous, not biting. If Shizuo didn’t know better he’d wager that the informant was _bored_ , but Izaya has never been known to be bored in the company of Shizuo Heiwajima. Never.

“Why.” Another statement, exhausted and desperate, and though Izaya isn’t facing him he can hear the strain in his voice, the strain that comes with loathsome frustration and resentment, the strain that comes when you have to ask a question you know the answer to, and the answer is not something you want to hear, want to think about.

“Because, Shizuo. Despite all our many differences, I have found there are two things we have in common.” Not Shizu-chan, but _Shizuo_ . In all of his life he’s been addressed by Izaya by his full name perhaps twice, if even that. And though it was not meant to catch Shizuo off-guard, drop his defenses down even further, it does, and Shizuo is another few steps closer to Izaya, close enough to hear the heavy breathing of a man holding back tears. _Shizuo_ . The name sounds both vile and beautiful coming from Izaya’s lips, sounds like ambrosia and hellfire all at once. It makes Shizuo’s heart do something he hasn’t felt it do in years, something different than the passionate _thump-thump_ of adrenaline in battle, something difference from the deep desire of wanting a man dead on the ground. Something different than rage, different than hatred - something closer to agony, to heartbreak. It drives Shizuo over the edge, and a burst of hysteria sounds from his chest, starting out as a sob and quickly pivoting to a laugh. The tears threatening his eyes start to spill, and his chest aches, his heart hurts. It’s too much, the fact that he and _Izaya Orihara_ are together in the dark of his apartment, crying. It’s too much, and when Shizuo finally comes down, Izaya is facing him again, eyes glistening but face dry.

“What… what could I possibly have in common with a flea like you?” His retort lacks bite, lacts bitterness, lacks _anything,_ sounds just as empty as Izaya’s words. Shizuo’s knuckles are turning white, and he’s not sure whether his fists are clenched in anger towards Izaya or towards himself.

A ghost of a grin catches the bare amount light filtering in from the other room, but it’s not _Izaya’s_ grin. It’s not a taunt, it’s not a challenge, it’s not a precursor to one of his knives whizzing past Shizuo’s head - it’s a shell, an empty shell. Where life had once thrived was now a cracked remainder, a broken home, Shizuo finds himself fixating on the centimeter of Izaya’s teeth that is visible - they are as white as ever, and Shizuo clings to the one unchanging factor about the man in front of him.

He isn’t meeting Izaya’s eyes when the informant says “we both hate the same two men.” Izaya’s voice cracks on the word _hate_ like he hasn’t said it in years, and Shizuo is sure he has, but not in the way he used to say it to him, not in the way he used to spit it out at Shizuo, not in the way he used to _mean_ it. And the thought briefly crosses Shizuo’s mind if _he’s_ the reason Izaya has ended up like this, for without hate there cannot exist love and without Izaya’s loathing of Shizuo Shizuo wonders if he can no longer love humanity. It’s not a idea he wants to reflect on for very long, and his reply of “what two men?” comes out not as though he thinks Izaya’s words preposterous, but as genuine, pleading curiosity. And now he’s close enough to Izaya that he could reach out and strangle him, or kick him, or anything he wants to do to the other. But he _doesn’t_ want to, not right now, and that realization hurts more than any of Izaya’s knives might.

“Their names,” Izaya starts, and the mania in his eyes isn’t what Shizuo remembers it to be, is teetering on actual insanity rather than thrill. Shizuo sucks in a breath, and when Izaya finishes his proclamation: “are Izaya Orihara and Shizuo Heiwajima” his heart stops, then splinters. And then Shizuo is on his knees in front of Izaya, hands around his neck, and Izaya is laughing a defeated laugh, and smiling a defeated smile, because _this_ is exactly what he wants. He waits for the squeeze, for the cut off of oxygen, for the breathlessness and lightheadedness that preludes a blackout. But it never comes, and instead Shizuo’s fingers are bruising a ring around Izaya’s neck but aren’t choking him, and the tears start up again and Izaya loses the battle against holding them back.

“Fuck, Shizuo. Squeeze _harder._ _Kill me_ already.” The words are a hiss, a plea, and command all at once, and Shizuo is still as stubborn as he always has been, and relents his grip, his hands coming to rest on Izaya’s knees below him. It’s the first words all night that have had an undertone of emotion, but it’s not the emotion Shizuo wants to hear, is not the emotion Shizuo has ever expected to hear.

“Is that what you want? You want me to kill you? Is that why you came here, stole my clothes and cigarettes and hair dye? Is that why?” Izaya isn’t meeting his gaze - in fact, his eyes are shut tight, tears steadily leaking from the corners.

“Yes,” Izaya breathes, and then he locks eyes with Shizuo for the briefest of seconds before closing them again and leaning forward, pressing the ghost of a kiss onto Shizuo’s lips, and it’s to stop his lip from trembling, to make Shizuo hate him even more, to do something he has wanted to do for so long. It’s not enough to taste the other, not enough to feel the coarseness of his chapped lips, the softness of his tongue, to memorize the curve of his cupid’s bow and the line of his lower lip. It’s not enough, and it will _never_ be enough, but nothing has ever been enough and if Izaya is going to die at the hands of Shizuo he wants to at least have touched him before he does.

When he pulls back, Shizuo hasn’t moved, hasn’t even _breathed,_ and Izaya is sure this is it, that he has crossed the final line and death is imminent. But instead, Shizuo’s thumb comes up to press hard enough against Izaya’s lips that he feels it in his teeth, feels the bruise forming the second it starts. It’s a gesture of silencing Izaya above all, but for a moment Izaya closes his eyes once more, pretends it’s intimacy instead of anger, pretends that Shizuo’s finger is against his lips in a different sort of passion.

Shizuo’s gaze drops from the newly bleached-blond of Izaya’s hair to the shadows of _his_ clothes hanging loosely off _Izaya’s_ body, shirt untucked and travelling down past Izaya’s thighs, pants drowning Izaya’s legs, rolled up multiple times at the ankle. Despite this, somehow it looks _right_ , it looks _right,_ as if Izaya belongs in the pressed shirt and vest of a bartender as much as he belongs in that favorite coat of his. Shizuo hates it, hates _him,_ and his thumb is pressing harder and Izaya’s lip is swelling up but neither of them moves, neither of them talks.

And it hits him all at once, so many things that should have been obvious, so many words that were underlined in self hatred, so many blows that were punctuated with suggestion, so many actions that were meant as much as to be the destruction of Izaya as the destruction of Shizuo, and he wonders how he he didn’t see it sooner, and then he realizes he _did,_ he did and he had realized it and he hadn’t wanted to think about it because he was so used to acting with his physical strength rather than his mental. Because while he had physical strength ten times more than any man should, he couldn’t deal with emotions, his or others’. Certainly not Izaya’s. And it’s a slap in the face, that he’s forced to confront this all out of nowhere, when he leasts expects it - not that he ever has.

“Why?” Shizuo whispers as the pressure is removed from his mouth, and Izaya parts his swelling lips, closes them, then opens them again before finally speaking. There are so many _whys_ \- why Izaya kissed Shizuo, why Izaya is there, why Izaya is wearing Shizuo’s clothes, smoking his cigarettes, why Izaya wants Shizuo to kill him, why Izaya wants to be _killed,_ why Izaya hates Shizuo, why Izaya hates _himself_ , and infinitely more - it’s a question against every action Izaya has ever done, every decision he has ever made, every word he has ever said, against his very existence itself. And it’s impossible to answer every _why_ at once, so Izaya settles for what answers the most, inhales, exhales, and speaks.

“Because, Shizuo.” There it is again, Shizuo’s name being expelled from bruised lips, bruises _he_ made, and his chest tightens like it does when he inhales smoke too fast, but Izaya is so much more than smoke, he is poison gas, contaminating the air that Shizuo breathes, slowly destroying him as he destroys himself. “Because I _want_ you as much as I want to _kill_ you, because I want you to _want me_ as much as you want to _kill me_ .” Crimson eyes are staring into chocolate ones, and if the eyes are the window to the soul then Shizuo can see Izaya’s soul bared before him, swirling with honesty and despair and want and need, red and black and love and hate. The words aren’t making any sense as Shizuo leans in, and when he kisses Izaya it’s with harshness and anger - anger toward himself, because what did he ever do to make someone like Izaya _want him_ and anger because he wants _Izaya,_ anger because Izaya’s arms around his neck, arms covered in _his_ shirt feel _good_ , send a shiver down his spine. Anger because Shizuo’s own hands fist in his own vest on Izaya’s body and pull towards him, anger because Izaya isn’t _hurting_ him, he is hurting _Izaya,_ and while he has hurt Izaya so many very times before this is so different, so unfamiliar, so unwanted.

Izaya’s lips part and Shizuo’s follow suit, and as chapped meets bruised there’s the saltiness of tears as well as the bitterness of cigarette smoke on his tongue,  and Shizuo doesn’t know whether it’s from Izaya or himself, because Izaya’s fists are curling in his hair and his tongue is sliding over his and there’s nothing in the world that could have prepared Shizuo for this moment, kissing _Izaya Orihara,_ but he wouldn’t change it because being touched feels _nice_ , being wanted feels _nice,_ being honest feels _nice,_  that they can do this, that they can touch and kiss without hurting each other, that there doesn’t _have_ to be violence feels _nice,_ and Izaya’s lips feel nice and his skin is warm and it’s the least lonely either has felt for as long as they can remember, because they both hate two men named Izaya Orihara and Shizuo Heiwajima.


End file.
